


It's a Deadly Game

by LtRDataSoong



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 03:17:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12855582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtRDataSoong/pseuds/LtRDataSoong
Summary: Intrigued by the Chesapeake killer work, Sherlock travels overseas with John to the Maryland, to catch a killer that might see even more than Hannibal.(It's incomplete for now, if you like it, please comment, I have a half idea of how to continue it but I need a beta tester since it's not my language and I tend to do a lot of mistakes).





	1. Chapter 1

Despite the relatively early hour, the street was crowded with busy people, walking fast without watching where they stepped, apologising with barely hidden angry frustration whenever they inadvertently stepped on each other. John was walking among them, fighting against that irritating stream, the plastic bags heavy in his hands, making his shoulder aching and burning up with resentment towards his lovely roommate, who had won again.

John was pretty sure Sherlock would have starved himself to death before going to buy any groceries, and even if the Doctor had tried multiple times to teach the Detective some responsibility, in the end it was always him who had to give up first, getting out of the house at sunrise on an empty stomach, since there wasn’t anything to make breakfast with inside the house -not even necessary for a cup of tea- and start a desperate quest for food.

Finally, as he arrived in front of the familiar wooden door. John cursed his bad luck again as his keys fell from his hands leaving the bags to drop to the floor with a sigh, the Doctor crouched to take his keys.  
In that precise moment, the door slammed open, the Detective stormed outside, his long dark coat following him like a theatrical cape, almost stepping into John who was standing right next to the door, keys in his hands, the groceries now spread all over the stone stairs.  
Sherlock ignored him, his eyes down to his phone, going straight to the cab waiting on the edge of the street.

John’s mind slowly processed what was happening, suddenly realising the scene he was looking at “Sherlock?” he called running towards the cab, following the detective who was already opening the car door.  
“Sherlock!” The Doctor shouted louder as the young man got into the cab.“Where are you going?” he asked holding the door ajar.  
Sherlock looked at him as if he had as if acknowledging the doctor’s presence for the first time, “Maryland” the detective answered, returning his eyes to his phone, typing fast on the keyboard, while making room to John leaving him the seat on the backseat.  
Again John’s mind took some time to react, standing right out of the cab “Maryland?” He asked, “as in, like, the USA, Maryland?”  
The clicking of the keyboard continued. John had threatened Sherlock multiple times giving him the choice to either mute that annoying thing or to eventually find the phone mysteriously broken, right below their living room window.

“Yes, as in the USA Maryland,” the detective repeated, raising his eyebrow as he always did when anyone asked him a stupid question. John raised his head, looking at the greyish white sky of London. _It might rain later_. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, sighing loudly, trying to ease the instinct of punching the younger man right away.

  
“Have you packed anything at all?” He asked, glaring at his roommate. Sherlock’s fingers finally stopped for a moment, raising his eyes from the display “What for?” was his frowned replay. The doctor looked up again, taking a deep breath, “Right, what for” he muttered, finally getting in the car while Sherlock returned to his typing.

* * *

* * *

 

John followed the all detective, running impatiently through the chaotic flock of tourists filling the shiny corridors of the airport. The orange sun, warm despite the season, was entering from the huge windows.   
The doctor glared at that annoying light that had followed them throughout that infinite trip, giving him the alien and unpleasant sensation of an unnatural long day.

The red words “Tattle Crime” on the top of the screen of his phone, were glowing gloomily on the black background. The doctor -- after he had managed to convince Sherlock to give him that bit of information at least -- had spent his flight skimming through the news articles. They were a showcase of opinions, suggestions intertwined with insubstantial facts and evidence mostly gathered while violating crime scene regulations or private property rights.

Sherlock finally came to a stop, grumbling at the long queue of the immigration office in front of them.  
“I don’t understand this newsfeed,” John said that last word disdainfully “It's mostly garbage, Sherlock” he finally proclaimed. The detective smirked, with that little patronising scoff that, as usual, made John roll his eyes “There is some truth in them and, more notably, an interesting one” the detective said enigmatically, John glared at him, irritated.

Not even giving John the time to reply, Sherlock ran out of the line, and a beat after the doctor followed him. With his decisive walk, the detective passed in front of everyone, while people started complaining, John muttered a repeated apology, Sherlock finally arrived at the desk on the opposite side of the room.  
A young woman looked at him for a split second, the phone at her side had been ringing for a while now “The queue is right there, sir” she said, pointing at the end of the line and giving them an almost despising glare as they didn’t move. Sherlock was standing where he was, ignoring the order of the woman to go away and the protests becoming more and more colourful by the minute behind them.   
As John managed to pull Sherlock away, with all the intention to drag him forcibly back in line if necessary, looking worried at the numerous guards who were now watching them, she finally picked up the phone.  
The woman suddenly returned to look at them, still holding the phone “it’s for you, sir” she said, in a surprised tone. John let him go, rubbing his eyes, wondering if it wasn’t too late to just go back to London and take a holiday from all of this “he has both of our numbers, why does he have to show off every damned time” he murmured to himself, while Sherlock, almost proud, went back to the desk with a smirk and took the phone.

Mycroft, across the Ocean, walked through the dark living room of his house, getting closer to the mirror hanging there, distractedly checking his reflection while holding the black phone to his ear.   
“Hello, brother mine,” he said smiling.

“Hello?” the young man repeated “Since when do we start a conversation with ‘hello’?” the older man’s smile got wider “I just wanted to make sure you behaved, baby brother” Mycroft said “American authorities, especially the FBI, need some consideration,” the calm voice said “they tend to be–” Mycroft stopped, searching for the right and less offensive word he could say, “prickly”. Sherlock sighed loudly, the older brother ignored him “Remember you are representing your country there” Sherlock frowned “I work as private” the detective remarked, “I’m not representing you, don’t worry”. 

“Not anymore, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, amused by Sherlock’s irritation “You don’t really think you can enter into an FBI investigation without an invitation, do you?” he said, assuming that tone he always used when his little brother was being silly, and that made Sherlock’s blood boil with irritation.

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock asked, annoyed “Consider it a gift for you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said “And just say thank you” he added, still looking at his reflection in the mirror, turning in profile, adjusting his jacket with his free hand, glaring at the mirror, frowning a bit at his reflection.  
Sherlock closed his mouth for a second, exasperated, Mycroft was waiting in an amused silence on the other side “You are right,” he said finally “you gained weight” he said, hanging up.


	2. Chapter Two

The pale marmoreal corpses, the personification of a timeless coldness, was neatly disposed on the shiny metallic tables, in line in the white aseptic room of the FBI morgue. A young man with curly dark hair, and a scruffy an appearance -that made John almost feel more at ease, with his pyjamas shirt barely hidden by the coat and the tiredness of the flight heavy in his face- was standing in the middle of that gloomy crowd- those mute witnesses as his only companions.

His greenish blue eyes were moving slowly from one corpse to the other, looking at them as if he was seeing something behind them. He didn’t seem to notice the two strangers, looking at him right behind the glass door.

Jack Crawford, who had welcomed the arrival of the two of them pretty coldly, had given up after some quite loud and angry calls and taken them to the labs. With barely contained impatience, he opened the door. The curly haired man emerged abruptly from the depth of his thoughts at the of sound the door, jumping surprised looking at the intruders.

“This is Will Graham, he’s the best profiler the FBI has” Jack said, sounding like he wanted to justify the man’s strange behaviour with that assertion, and making John suddenly feel a bit of sympathy for that grumpy agent: how many times had he tried to cover Sherlock’s strange behaviour by boasting about his intelligence.   
Will had all of sudden changed his posture, moving his eyes quickly far away from the strangers, while his body closed more in itself.  
“These are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” Jack said sighing loudly before continuing “they are amateur detectives from London who are interested in our cases,” he said. The doctor glared at Sherlock, waiting for his reaction, but Sherlock didn’t seem to have heard any of it, his eyes were looking intensely at Will.

“Sherlock Holmes” the man repeated “I’ve heard about you, you’re considered the best detective in the world” he stated, still looking away “your methods are considered quite peculiar”   
Sherlock scoffed. “Not as much as yours, Mister Graham,” he said. “Pure empathy, that’s an imaginative diagnosis” the detective commented then, walking among the corpses, observing them one by one with interest.

“As much as ‘high functioning sociopath’?” Will ask sceptically, finally looking up at the detective now that his striking blue eyes were distracted by the pale corpses.   
Sherlock shrugged a little. “For a lack of better labels, that seemed to fit pretty well” he answered dryly.

After a moment of silence, examining the bluish hands of a horrible disfigured dark-haired woman “So how do you do it?” Sherlock asked suddenly. Will frowned.  
The detective took a deep breath “People can’t tell how I work because they walk around, blind and obtuse as a flock of bovines, ignoring everything their eyes see, unable to even do the slightest deduction. I just connect what I see” the young detective said. Jack raised his eyebrow at the flippant explanation, while John smiled apologetically.  
The detective stopped for a beat, the hand of the dead lady still in his hand, and took his little lens from his pocket “They get so amazed, while everything I say was just there, in front of them as much as it was in front of me” he continued, turning to Will “But how do you do?” He asked again getting closer to the profiler, who looked away again.

“What I say is supported by the evidence,” the other man said, turning only for a moment to the taller man, meeting for a second the detective’s eyes “But that’s not the path you follow to get the answers you seek, isn’t it?” Sherlock insisted.  
“I’m just able to understand how people’s mind work, I see what others see, borrowing their eyes” Will said, smiling weakly.  
The silence fell again in the room heavy.

“So, since when you two are together?” Will asked suddenly frowning innocently turning to John.

* * *

* * *

 

  
“That was rude, Will” Hannibal observed, not even trying to hide his amusement. Will Graham was sitting in front of him, in his study, like he used to do at the time they’d just met, and, despite their relationship had grown far from being objective and professional, like it was supposed to be, they still liked to chat as in therapy. “He was rude to me first,” Will answered, smiling back, knowing how childish that was. “He didn’t come here to catch the Chesapeake Ripper,” he said then, turning serious and averting his eyes from Hannibal, “he came to catch me” he stated.

“Does he think you are the killer or is he just looking for someone similar to himself who would be able to finally ‘see’?” Hannibal asked quietly, his eyes, as always, were the only ones to betray his emotions: his endless curiosity was sparkling in them behind the immovable expression, studying the younger man moving uncomfortably in his chair. Will looked at him for a long moment, then looked away again.  
“I don’t know, maybe both” he answered, shrugging a bit.

“Jack was furious,” he said then, abruptly changing the subject, “he doesn’t like eccentric detectives invading his investigations, even if they might prove useful” he added, smiling a little while remembering Jack frustration.   
“Unless he is not the one who invited them?” Hannibal observed with a smile. At that, Will laughed a bit “More unless they don’t follow his orders like well-trained puppies” he said, “But apparently they have an influence of some sort: they are granted access to all the pieces of evidence and reports we have about the Ripper.” The profiler said, playing absent-mindedly with the fabric of his chair. “And they will work with us if another corpse shows up” he added after a moment of silence.

Hannibal bent towards him, Will finally looked into his eyes again “Are you worried, Will?” the doctor asked the doctor said smiling only with his cold glare, "Aren't you curious to see him hunting?" William stared at him, without answering as a cold shiver ran through his body. 


End file.
